
When middle-aged Levis-clad white women dance to blues, I’m telling you, they dance with uterus first.
They bounce and gyrate, tautly bending knees, shaking hips and squatting like wrinkly Western-themed barbie dolls. They clomp their boots to the live sounds of perennial white-guy blues pablum — at this moment the song is “Lay Down Sally,” which was lame enough when Eric Clapton recorded it.
The revelry spreads like a hot flash. There are three women dancing. Six. More are bobbing in the wings. I look around the room, thinking “How big could this get?”
Like a toddler, a woman in salt-and-pepper hair and a peasant dress twirls and “drops it like it’s hot” — squatting to slap the floor with both hands. I am uncomfortable.
Men are there too. Donning collared shirts tucked into jeans, the studs traipse and spin with the graces of spinal traction patients. They have ruddy faces and brandy noses; they stare nowhere, locked in a blues-induced trance. I am reminded of the Gurdieff movements in “Meetings with Remakable Men,” repetitive, symmetrical spins and steps designed to enlighten the seeker. “I long to see the morning light, coloring your face so dreamily…Don’t you ever leave.”
The tao of Eric Clapton. Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads in order to become a great bluesman. I’m certain he is serving out his eternal punishment in a club like this.
Ad infinitum, the musicians hammer out the obligatory I-IV-V, 12-bar blues progressions. The pentatonic guitar scale does its sensible work – loyal, weary, trodden — like a pack mule. Tonight, repetition and familiarity is king. “I’ve heard this song 3,000 times!” a man says enthusiastically as the band fires up “She Complicated”.
I have a solid view of tonight’s boomer bacchanal. I am on the stage, a member of the guilty party.